A Spark of Light(65)
“There’s a wheelchair.” Louie pointed to a spot where one was crammed beside a file cabinet, beyond Vonita’s body.
The shooter jerked his gun at Izzy, indicating she could get it. She ran behind the reception desk, past Vonita. She dragged the chair to where Bex lay, straddled the woman, and slipped her arms under Bex’s armpits to lift her. With a struggle that Louie watched, helplessly, she managed to get the woman into the wheelchair and retaped the plastic seal over the chest tube.
Bex coughed and then fought for breath, adjusting to her new position.
“You walk her out,” the shooter said, “and then you come right back. Or I start shooting.” He grabbed the doorknob from the inside and swung it toward him, so that he was hidden behind the slab of wood. Sunlight fell into the room, silhouetting Izzy and Bex.
That slice of light inched close to Louie as the door opened. He leaned a little to the left, wincing, until he could cup the ray in his palm. Suddenly he was seven years old again, sitting on the porch while his grandmama snapped beans. The air was sticky and the wood under his thighs was hot enough to sear the backs of his legs. He stretched out his small hand, trying to catch the sun that spilled through the leaves of the cypress trees. He wondered if it had come to dance for him alone, or if it would put on its show even after he was gone.
Noon
HUGH HAD BEEN THE THIRD POLICEMAN TO ARRIVE. His unmarked car screamed to a stop behind a cruiser. He was immediately approached by two wide-eyed beat cops, who’d been the first to reach the Center after Dispatch’s all-hands-on-deck call reporting an active shooting. “Lieutenant,” one of the cops said. “What do you want us to do?”
“What do we know so far?”
“Nothing,” said the second officer. “We got here ten seconds before you did.”
“Have you heard any gunfire?”
“No.”
Hugh nodded. “Until more backup arrives, position yourselves at the northwest and southeast corners of the building in case the shooter tries to leave the building.”
The cops hurried away. Hugh started running a checklist in his mind. He would need the street cordoned off. He would need a command center. If the shooter wasn’t coming out, he would need a direct line inside to speak to him. He would need to get rid of the people lining the street who thought this was entertainment.
His personal cellphone was buzzing frantically in his pocket, but he ignored it as he reached into his car and called Dispatch. “I’m on-site,” he told Helen. “I’m securing the scene. Shooter’s still inside, presumably with hostages. Has anyone gotten hold of the chief?”
“Working on it.”
“Call the regional SWAT team and get them here,” Hugh said. “And get me aerial photos of the Center.”
As he hung up the radio, three more squad cars arrived. He reached into his breast pocket, pushing the button on the side of his phone to dismiss whoever wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone while he tried to keep a nightmare from becoming even more disastrous.
When others were paralyzed by panic or overwhelmed by adrenaline, Hugh kept calm, steady, clearheaded. He didn’t yet know if there were survivors inside the building, nor did he know what had happened that brought this gunman into a collision path with him today. But he would find out fast, and he would move heaven and earth to get the guy to put down his weapon before there was any more damage.
Even as he instructed additional beat cops on how to secure the perimeter and what materials he needed to do his job, Hugh was praying. Well, maybe not praying, but pleading to the universe. Praying was for people who hadn’t seen what Hugh had in his line of work. Praying was for people who still believed in God. He was fervently hoping that this asshole with a gun was one who could be easily defused. And that the shots he’d fired might have struck plaster or glass, and not people.
Within minutes, Hugh was managing thirty-odd policemen. He tapped impatiently on his thigh. He needed to have the area secure before he initiated contact with the shooter. This was his least favorite part of the process: waiting to begin the work.
His phone began to buzz again.
Hugh drew it out of his pocket. There were twenty-five messages from his daughter.
There is a moment when you realize that no matter how well you plan, how carefully you organize, you are at the mercy of chaos. It’s the way time slows the moment before the drunk driver crosses the median line and plows into your vehicle. It’s the seconds that tick by between when the doctor invites you to take a seat, and when she gives you bad news. It’s the stutter of your pulse when you see another man’s car in the driveway of your house in the middle of the day. Hugh looked down at the home screen of his phone and felt the electric shiver of intuition: he knew. He just knew.
He clicked on Wren’s messages.
Help
There’s someone shooting.
I’m here with Aunt Bex.
She’s hurt. I don’t know where she is.
Dad? Are you there?
DAD THIS IS AN EMERGENCY
I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO
DAD
He stopped reading. His hands felt like lead and all his blood was pooling in his gut. Why was Wren in there? Why was Bex in there? He managed to type out a response: